


Numb and Cut Off from the World

by barbaricyawp



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Fat Shaming, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Ignored Safeword, M/M, Pining, Rope Bondage, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Martin has to sink down to some low part of himself to retrieve what he needs.In which Martin takes whatever affection he can get, Peter practices bad BDSM, and Jon is...around?
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	Numb and Cut Off from the World

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for bad bdsm etiquette, bondage, fat shaming, ignored safeword, and humiliation.
> 
> For those who know about my commitment to happy endings, this doesn't have one yet. I found this lurking in my drafts. I'd initially planned a long, romantic burn for Jon and Martin, but who knows if that will manifest. I figured this worked as a standalone, so I might as well post it.

* * *

I am only as good as the worst thing I do.

* * *

Of all Peter’s favorite positions, hogtying is Martin’s least favorite. It’s humiliating, of course. And Martin’s circulation is so poor that by the time Peter is finished knotting the rope around his wrists and ankles, his hands have already gone numb. Within the first few minutes, Martin is squirming, flexing his fingers and toes to coax blood into them. 

Perhaps that’s why Peter uses it so often; he likes to see Martin suffer.

Martin’s suspicions are confirmed by the smirk Peter wears when he rounds the bed to surveille Martin’s body. No doubt appraising his work. 

“Hogtied indeed,” he says, patting Martin’s side. “Emphasis on _hog_.”

Though Martin is well past the point of being ashamed of his body, there’s something about Peter’s tone. About his certainty that his pointed comment would bother Martin. It draws heat to his cheeks. He closes his eyes, turns his face away in shame.

“Now there’s an idea!” Peter says brightly.

Martin turns his head to see what’s the idea, but Peter has already wrapped a blindfold around his eyes. 

Oh. 

No.

Not Martin’s idea at all, but Peter wants to make him think it is.

“I don’t know,” Martin equivocates, clenching his toes. He’s already gone numb from the ankles down. If Peter’s breaking out the blindfold, the ballgag likely isn’t far behind, and once that’s out Peter can go for hours. 

“That doesn’t sound like your safeword.” Though Peter’s tone is kindly, there’s a layer of malice under it. Somehow, it’s the malice that sends shivers through Martin’s body. That tightens his skin and splutters his heart.

“It’s not,” he admits softly, blindly opening his mouth to accept the gag.

It never comes. Instead Peter places headphones into his ears. The rubber kind that seal out any other sound. Then he pats Martin’s side again, maybe says something, but Martin can’t hear it. After that, there’s nothing else.

“Peter?” Martin can feel his tongue move in his mouth, his throat vibrate, but can’t hear himself. And that terrifies him. A cold sweat breaks out over Martin’s body as he calls out again, “Peter?”

Nothing. Not a touch. Not a movement. Nothing.

Not knowing whether or not he’s alone, whether or not Peter is watching, drives the stakes of Martin’s fear higher...and his arousal. It’s a sick, swimming sensation low in his gut. Made worse by the constant pressure of his entire body weight on his stomach. 

Time stretches on like that. Leaving Martin suspended in a haze. 

Peter didn’t even have the decency to filter music through the headphones, instead looping the hour-long white noise track Martin uses to fall asleep. The brief pause in the track is how Martin keeps track of time. How he knows after one, two loops that Peter has left him alone for two full hours.

By the end of the first loop, Martin’s hands and feet are prickling. By the end of the second, he’s lost sensation from elbows to fingers, from knees to toes. 

He grips the arch of each foot in his hands, just to remind himself that he’s here. That he exists and he has himself.

God, it’s...well, it’s just awful isn’t it?

At the end of the second hour, when the third loop begins, Martin is trembling all over.The strain on his body paired with suspended arousal is too much. He tries to roll on his side, just to feel something else—and is immediately met with a hand. He’s forced back onto his front, crushing his erection against his belly.

Martin whimpers, a keening sound that seems to be wrenched out of him. “Peter, I can’t—”

Something is pressed into him then. Hard and large and testing at Martin’s unstretched passage. He knows instantly that it’s a plug. Not so large as to be painful. No, it’s not the size that makes Martin cry out. It’s the suddenness. The abrupt fullness and sensation after so long waiting numb and cut off from the world. 

When Martin screams, a hand seals over his mouth and nose. It holds him there, unable to breath, until his lungs spasm. Just when Martin is about to jerk back to gasp for air, he is released.

Peter is like that: able to anticipate what Martin will do. Even when Martin doesn’t know what he, himself, will do next. 

Scary, isn’t it? Having less control of yourself than someone else. And wanting it that way. Wanting to let go. God, Martin desperately wants to let go.

Another hour passes. Martin is sobbing by the time the loop starts over. And not just weak whimpers like earlier in the session, but full-bodied weeping. He’s shaking at the joints, trembling all over. Peter doesn’t like it when he cries— _Now, how’s that supposed to make me feel, Martin? Really! —_ but punishment would be better than this. Better than being left alone.

“Peter,” he finally says hoarsely. Ready to safeword out. “Arc—”

He can’t finish. Before he gets the word out, the plug inside him starts buzzing. Hard. The vibrations fill his whole body, rattling him from the inside.

Martin had no idea that it was a—or he wouldn’t have—what—what—

The force of his surprise rocks him off his stomach, onto his side. The weight of his thighs presses the plug deeper into him, squeezing more tightly around the intrusion. He squirms to get back onto his front, but without use of his hands and legs, he can’t right himself. 

Martin has to rely on Peter—on Peter’s kindness—to get him back on his front. But Peter isn’t kind. He knew Martin was about to safeword out and he robbed him of it. He knew and…

Or wait, no, even worse. Maybe Peter _isn’t here_.

Martin didn’t feel any pressure on the plug before it started vibrating. It’s entirely possible that it is remote operated. That Peter isn’t even in here. That he left the room and is now downstairs reading a book. Or making some tea. Or just gone.

Which is worse? That he’s downstairs, indifferent to Martin and his safeword? Or that he’s sitting across the room, watching Martin struggle with that damned smirk on his face.

The mere thought of being watched tips Martin over the edge. He fights the orgasm all the while, unwilling to come untouched, and the result is painful. A daggering sort of pleasure that clenches each numb muscle in his body.

As he comes, he cries out, loud enough to be heard over the static white noise in his ears.

“Arc—Ar—” he stutters, trying to safeword again. He needn’t bother; there are hands on him already, loosening the ropes and easing his limbs down. “Arch—iv—” Martin tries anyway. 

“Oh, you can stop that now,” Peter says when he removes the headphones for Martin. His voice is light and casual. As if he’s discussing how he likes his tea steeped. As if he doesn’t care.

And really, he doesn’t. 

#

The next day, Martin wakes up sore and hating himself. But what else is new after a night with Peter?

It isn’t until he starts dressing for work that he realizes there are bruises encircling his wrists and ankles. “Fuck,” he hisses at the purpling marks. “I told him—I _told_ him, didn’t I? I told him I didn’t want—oh, but who cares what Martin wants?”

Though it’s a humid July day, Martin forces his arms through a long-sleeved shirt. This particular shirt looks better with a jumper, but the archives don’t have air con, so that’s right out.

The tube is sweltering. The sun on his walk from the station so oppressive that by the time Martin gets to the institute, he’s sweat through his vest. Before he even sets his things down at his desk, Martin ducks into the lavatory to mop up what he can of the sweat with paper towels.

In the mirror, he can see that there are two crescents of sweat under each arm, still expanding downwards in the heat of the archives. At this rate, poor Martin will sweat like a pig all day.

_Hogtied, indeed._

Martin must fight off intrusive thoughts like these all day. When Tim brings a fan in, the sound is perilously close to the white noise Peter played. When Daisy snaps at him for moving too slow or Basira insinuates he’s taking up too much space, Martin feels a sense of shame so crushing he has to tuck himself between the shelves just to center himself.

And all the while he suffocates in his long-sleeved shirt. Stupid Peter. 

(Stupid Martin.)

“Martin!” Jon appears out of nowhere, startling Martin. “What are you doing down there?”

Martin gets up from the floor, dusting off his thighs as he stands. “Sorry, just—I was—well I was just—“ He honestly doesn't know how to answer that? _Oh, sorry about that, I was just having a mid-work panic attack about—Well about what, I'm not sure! But I sure am sorry!_

“Never mind,” Jon waves his hand, frustrated. Like Martin’s obnoxiousness can be fanned away. “I’ve been looking for you. Tim says you have Saturday’s statement.”

“Oh, why, yes. Not on me of course, but back in my desk—“

“Well, let’s go get it then,” Jon interrupts, already turned and striding back towards the offices. Too busy for Martin's babbling nonsense. Martin doesn't blame him. (Stupid Martin.)

As Martin follows him, he gets the distinct urge to apologize again. But that would likely annoy Jon further, and so Martin keeps his mouth shut.

The statement is tucked deep into the back of a filing cabinet (they’re getting near the end of the month and it starts to get quite full in the drawers) and Martin rolls up his sleeves to squeeze his arm between the top of the files and the top of the drawer.

“There we are!” He presents the statement with a flourish. Glad to have found it quickly lest Jon question his organizational methods (again). Eager to prove that he is on top of his files, Martin pushes his luck. “Did you just need Saturday, or—“

Martin trails off, catching Jon’s wide eyes. Angry? No. Frustrated, maybe? Is it the wrong statement? Martin checks the statement number again and, oh good, alright, it’s the right statement. He tilts the file back towards Jon, about to explain when he sees that Jon isn’t looking at the file at all but his _wrist_.

His wrist! The bruises! Martin has his sleeves rolled up. 

“What caused these ligature marks?” Jon demands. No, not quite demands. It’s not so forceful as that. Jon is often firm but rarely demanding. Compels, might be the better word choice. Jon compels.

God. Of course Jon knows they’re ligature marks and not just bruises. Martin wouldn’t be surprised if he knew exactly what kind of textile was used and when. He’s just so smart like that. God.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Martin defends, rolling his sleeve down and huffing a nervous little laugh. “I bruise easily, I—I—“

To Martin’s surprise, Jon just nods. “Okay, Martin,” he says gently. “Okay.”

He takes the file and is about to leave when he turns and says, “But let me know if you need me. Alright?”

Martin just nods, stunned. It’s the softest Jon—no, _anyone_ —has ever spoken to him.

#

He goes back to Peter, of course. Because he craves it. Because he needs it.

Peter is happy to accommodate him. 

“Glad to see you, Martin.” That bright, friendly voice. Martin once found it comforting; he always sounded glad to see him.

“Yeah,” Martin mumbles, shouldering past him to get inside. “You too.”

“Aren’t we in a rush today?” Peter follows Martin towards his bedroom, smiling in condescending amusement. 

Martin has begun to take off his clothes, haphazardly rolling them into semi-stacks of shirt and vest and trousers and pants that he flings onto the ridiculous armchair in Peter’s bedroom. “I’m just keen to get going. Can we?”

“Certainly.” Peter shucks his tie, and Martin’s gut turns. If Peter is taking off his clothes, it won’t be the toys today. It will be Peter himself. His hands. His mouth. His body.

Martin takes his tie from him and hangs it neatly in his closet, with all the rest of Peter’s crisp clothing. His closet smells good, clean in the way only wealthy men can smell. 

When Martin hangs his shirt and trousers for him, he hesitates momentarily. Inhaling. Something about the cool, polished scent reminds Martin of his mother when she returned home from work. He’d hug her tight to himself, nose tucked into the folds of her skirt, smelling the cold air from outside, smelling her perfume. Until she pushed him away.

“Well,” Peter’s voice comes from the bedroom, overly friendly. The way he gets when he’s impatient. “Don’t dawdle now.”

Martin smooths his fingers down the sleeve of wool suitcoat and heads back to the bedroom. Peter pats the bed beside him, but Martin stands before him with his arms crossed, wrists tucked behind his forearms.

“You bruised me last time.”

“Did I? I’m sorry.” He pats the bed again, just once. More demanding this time.

“Yeah,” Martin murmurs bitterly. “I’m sure you are.”

Peter arches a brow, and Martin sighs, already regretting this.

“Look just,” he runs both hands through his hair. Damp with sweat from the tube. “Don’t do it again.”

He approaches the bed, ready to obey, but Peter halts him with a single raised hand. Martin nearly stumbles over himself to comply. His cheeks heat at his own, immediate obedience. 

God, he can’t help himself, can he?

“You came to me. Do I need to remind you of that? _You_ came to _me_ . And you’ve been very rude tonight, Martin.” Peter smiles. A terrible smile. “Oh, no, don’t think I’m upset. _Please_ don’t think I’m upset. But I do think you should correct this behavior. Don’t you?”

Martin nods, head dipping low. No, he doesn’t particularly feel as if he owes Peter anything. But it’s easier just to agree. Whatever Peter wants him to give up, it’ll be better to offer it than have it forcibly taken.

“Very good.” Peter’s praise washes over Martin. “Now crawl.”

“I’m sorry, did you say—”

“Crawl? Yes, I did. Get to your knees and crawl.”

Humiliation is a hard coal in Martin’s esophagus he can’t quite swallow. He starts to shake his head, refuse, but thinks better of it. 

Getting to the floor is embarrassing, but once he’s on his knees, Martin feels himself lift up out of his body. And then it’s not so bad. Then it’s just like watching him move towards Peter and the bed. Then it’s just watching Peter take a fistful of his hair and haul his head closer.

It’s nice. He lets the weight of his head rest against Peter’s fist. Lets himself drift, content to be right where he's told to be.

Something about the gesture must amuse Peter because he laughs. He lets Martin take a few, deep breaths like this, then works a foot between his knees, guiding his legs apart.

“Do you want to touch yourself?”

Martin shakes his head. No. He wants nothing to do with his body.

“Suit yourself, but I’m not touching you. No? Still don’t want to touch yourself?” Peter’s fingers loosen from his hair, then fall away. “Looks like no one is touching you, then.”

He stuffs himself into Martin’s mouth, then, and the sex that ensues is rough and impersonal. Purposefully cruel at times. He presses the head of his cock against Martin’s cheek, just to thumb over the bulge. When he’s had enough, Peter slaps the back of Martin’s head to signal he should move onto the bed. He shoves Martin’s thighs apart with his knees and pushes his head down. It’s the only time he does touch Martin, to mock him. 

And Martin? He takes it. He takes it, and he takes it, and he takes it, and he’s _grateful_ for it.

Suddenly, loneliness plummets through him. He doesn’t want to be fucked like this. Rough is fine, good even, but he doesn't like it so impersonal. So detached. He wants hands on him. He wants to be watched and touched and handled and _held_. 

“Touch me,” he demands pointblank.

Peter just clicks his tongue. “Now, Martin—” he sounds a little hoarse, breathless. “I thought we were respecting _boundaries_ today.”

Martin clenches his eyes so tight, tears squeeze out. “Yes, but—”

“And one of my _boundaries_ is that I don’t want to touch you. Why would I?” His hips slap up against Martin’s, unsteady without the anchor of his hands.

Goddamn him. Goddamn him. Martin hates him so much. Stupid Peter. (Stupid Martin.) Stupid fucking Peter. (Stupid fucking Martin.)

“Peter, please.”

“No." Peter is sharper now, ice in his eyes. "I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”

Martin has to sink down to some low part of himself to retrieve what he needs to say, “I’ll do anything.”

Peter stills. “Really?” He sounds positively overjoyed. “Anything?”

“Yes,” Martin grits out, squirming back against Peter. He hated being fucked and now he hates not being fucked. He just can’t win.

“Do I have your word on that?”

Exasperated, at the end of his wits, Martin sobs. “Yes, goddamn it. I said so, didn’t I—oh!”

Peter seizes his hips in each hand, hauling him back. Driving himself deeper. His fingers dig into Martin where he is softest. For a moment, Martin considers asking him not to leave marks. But Peter won’t listen anyway.

When he comes, Martin feels as if he’s a collapsing star. The dark pull in his gut is so deep, so dense. 

#

Afterwards, Martin is quick to put his clothes on. He doesn’t wash himself first and the fabric clings to his sweat damp skin. His trousers refuse to slide up his thighs, catching on Peter’s come. Frustrated, Martin begins to cry.

Peter, lounging on his bed with a book, doesn’t notice.

Not that Martin wants him to.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
